


Drunk on a Bus

by emetsketeers



Series: literally just puke [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emetophilia, Gen, puke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 05:00:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5235092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emetsketeers/pseuds/emetsketeers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan's drunk on a bus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunk on a Bus

The gist of it is that d’Artagnan’s on a bus and he’s drunk, but to go into detail he’s on a bus with Athos headed back to the apartment and he’s really really fucking drunk, the kind of drunk where closing your eyes makes the world turn upside-down, the kind of drunk where if you breathe too deeply you automatically begin dry-heaving.

He opens his eyes, tries to guess what stop they’re at. Doesn’t know, prays Athos is paying better attention. The streetlights outside the bus make his head spin again and he tastes a thin, hot wash of acid over his tongue.

Oh, god. Oh, shit. He’s going to puke on the bus, isn’t it? He’s going to puke on the bus (hasn’t gone _there_ since sophomore year) and he’s going to puke on the bus in front of Athos, who has probably never puked on a bus in his life, who despite his wildly alcoholic ways has probably always managed to exit the vehicle he’s in before actually voiding his stomach.

D’Artagnan giggles. It isn’t funny but maybe in some nihilistic sort of way it is, or something.

The bus hits a pot hole. His stomach keeps moving forward inside his body, snaps back at the sudden motion, and he throws up, a pretty good amount of it too, but manages to hold it in his mouth and gulp it back down only because he’s drunk enough not to care how gross that is. It’s still pretty gross, though. He thinks about it just a little too much, about how it’s all liquid, just all completely fucking liquid, mostly Jägermeister and Red Bull but a couple tequila shots in there too, and it’s _hot_ , hotter than he thinks the inside of his body should be, and now his nose stings and smells like puke…

He presses his hand to his mouth and throws up again, swallows it back down again. This time he’s pretty sure a little gets out past his lips and into his fingers, but for the most part he’s still got it pretty much under control and wonders if Athos even notices.

(Athos notices. Athos has already pressed the button for the next stop, but d’Artagnan doesn’t realize, will need to be told about it later.)

In fact, something else d’Artagnan doesn’t know of just then is how very close he makes it to not (officially) throwing up on the bus. He comes very very close. Almost makes it.

Almost makes it.

Then the bus lurches to a stop, as Athos requested, and d’Artagnan lurches too and loudly, viciously, abruptly regurgitates a stomachful of pure fucking liquid puke, in a gush so huge and hot and massive that he almost blacks out before it finishes. When he opens his eyes there’s a pool of frothy yellow bile in his lap, soaking into the thighs of his nice dark blue skinny jeans, and it’s all over his shoes and the floor as well.

He wipes his nose. “M’stomach hurts,” he tells Athos, as though Athos might not have seen, and heard, and smelled the evidence of this for himself.

Athos gets him off the bus. He stands on the sidewalk, dripping puke onto the concrete, and looks down at himself again. “Looks li’ I pissed m’self,” he moans, to which Athos replies, “I’m not sure the truth is any less incriminating.”

In response to that d’Artagnan presses both hands to his stomach, lets out a terrible, guttural belch, which turns into another eruption of stomach lava, projectile-splashing down two sidewalk squares.

“Feel bett’r,” he announces, once he’s done spitting.

“Do you really?”

“No,” d’Artagnan admits, hiccups, and throws up a tiny stream. “Hang on, hang on.” He gets down on all fours, sucks his gut in, and then retches as hard as he physically can, delivering another near-geological puke all over the sidewalk, feeling the acid shoot out his nostrils, coughing as it burns coming back up his throat twice as badly as it had going down.

“Now I do,” he whimpers, and he does, at least he feels empty, but his arms and legs are shaking so badly he’s about to go face-first into his own pavement river of toxic runoff.

Then Athos has him by the elbows, is pulling him to his feet. Fingers undo the buttons on his shirt and pull it off, using the back of it to wipe his face off before it’s stuffed into the nearest trashcan. His undershirt is remarkably clean. All the puke’s on his jeans, and the sidewalk, and the floor of the #11.

“No chance of a cab,” Athos remarks, very matter-of-factly. “Ready?”

“Mm. Hm-hm. ‘ll stop you ‘f I needa puke, ‘kay?”

Athos sighs. “I’m sure you will.”

**Author's Note:**

> Um. I see you kudos-ing and bookmarking. Drop some comment love while you're at it :)


End file.
